


Super Naptime Husbands, or How Wade Learned to Stop Panicking and Be Held (WIP)

by bellepeppertronix



Category: Cable (Comics), Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Self Esteem Issues, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, canonically, there are so many subcategories of Fluff, wade is touch-starved but also repulsed by himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 06:41:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20962163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellepeppertronix/pseuds/bellepeppertronix
Summary: It's exactly what you think it is. Do you think i came here to provide any content for these two, other than ridiculously self-indulgent fluff? Because i did not. That is my sole reason. They are Married and they Love Each Other!!! IMPORTANT NOTICE!!! If you read this on a paid app, you have been swindled! It is originally hosted on archiveofourown.org and can be searched and read there FOR FREE!!!Please come visit the website and comment, and let me know if that is how you found me!





	Super Naptime Husbands, or How Wade Learned to Stop Panicking and Be Held (WIP)

**Author's Note:**

> HMMMMM OK so i think i have decided that, as i work very slowly, maybe i ought to just...share WIPS as separate pieces? I'll see how I like that idea, and everyone gets to read something, even if it's not done!

What The Hell Am I Doing

(Wade and Nate have Trouble: Wade is touch-starved, but thinks he can only get physical with Nate when they have sex; he’s got a lot fo self-loathing, and he won’t let Nate do anything casually affectionate, so no gentle touches, no cuddling, etc. And he doesn’t realize it’s making Nate feel sad and worried and withdrawn.)

~  
ONE

Wade didn’t know how it had taken so long to come down to this.  
He supposed he should be glad he was at least wearing some clothes, and Nate wasn’t balls-deep in his ass when he asked the question in question.  
Fuck, English was a weird language. 

They were in Nate’s absurdly spacious, and equally absurdly spartan bedroom, in his fancy place in Providence, sitting on the couch. Because of course Nate had a couch in his bedroom. It was a really nice couch, vaguely mid-century modern, vaguely late 70s ‘futuristic’, a pale gray-blue with brushed steel legs. Wade had become very, very intimately acqainted with that couch, having spent plenty a pleasant evenings and afternoons (and sometimes, on special occasions and holidays, first thing in the morning when they both woke up) mashed into those cushions with Metal-Armed Mutant Jesus fucking him so good he sometimes found religion.

Now he wished he hadn’t hurried over and plopped down, his (regrettably knockoff, so of course he coudn’t get royalties) Deadpool sweatpants bunched in weird places on his legs.  
Nate, as always, was looking positively fucking delicious in a white terrycloth robe and a pair of loose, flowy blue pants that molded really nice to his thighs and ass. The robe had been open and showing a nice expanse of his chest, both organic and techno-organic, before he’d crossed his arms over his chest and spoiled the view and made Wade’s totally-under-control anxiety just fucking start jackhammering in his chest. 

“I didn’t think it was a problem,” Wade said, shrugging. The dildo he was holding in one hand wobbled in a funny way, which Nate totally would have appreciated along with him if his train hadn’t suddenly jumped the Sexy Tracks and landed on the Terrifying Soul-Searching tracks instead. “C’mon, even you gotta admit, if there was a Fuck-a-Lympics, we’d do pretty good. We’d take home silver, at least.”  
“Wade!”  
“Okay, okay, yeah, I should give you more credit. They’d give you gold just for showing up and dropping trou. You could--”  
“Wade, you didn’t even answer my question.” Nate said. His voice was tired, with the brittle edge of real anger creeping in, and hoo boy, if THAT didn’t make the nervous sweat start up all down Wade’s back.  
When Wade gave him a blank look that stretched on for just a beat too long, Nate sighed and pursed his lips. The next time he spoke, it came out almost a snarl.  
“I asked you why you won’t touch me, or let me touch you, unless we’re having sex or sparring. It was a simple question. You don’t have to go through any mental gymnastics to give a simple answer.”

Ah. This was going to be a capital-P Problem. 

“You jump out of bed like a wet cat right after we finish. And you always want to cut straight to sex. You don’t even think about it, but it always rolls back around to that. But you do it the way some people chew gum. What do you think it feels like, Wade, realizing you’re really just going through the motions for—for some other purpose.”

“I mean, I’d really like to go through some Motions right now,” Wade said, but he aborted the hip-thrust mid-way through when he saw that Nate’s pissed-off expression hadn’t changed. 

“It feel like shit, Wade. That’s how it feels,” Nate said. Then he shook his head. “That’s not even the whole problem, though; I think, now, I can finally answer the second question for you.”  
Wade tossed the dildo from one hand to the other, and said, “I told you already, it’s silicone. I already have skin-fuckery going on, you think I’m gonna stick a hunk of vinyl that smells like a chemical spill up my ass for fun?”

“We fuck so often because you won’t let me touch you or show you any tenderness outside the bedroom,” Nate snapped, patience finally frayed too thin and shattered. 

And that was a low blow, too low for Wade, who curled tighter on himself and looked miserable. He tried, “That’s not true. Two days ago you tossed me around the gym like a really melty-looking training dummy, remember? You--”

“That’s part of the problem! I spent my entire life fighting like a dog, Wade, just to STAY ALIVE. I don’t want--” he stopped, still pinning Wade with one of his patented Inscrutable Looks; then he raked a hand through his hair, and paced away towards the window.  
For a terrifying instant, Wade was convinced he was going to go—and really, he wasn’t sure if that would be better or worse than finishing this complete clusterfuck of a conversation—but then he turned on his heel and came back to the couch, and then, to Wade’s horror, KNELT IN FRONT OF HIM, big hands coming down to grip the cushions to either side of Wade’s knees. 

“Um, I like a BJ as much as the next guy, but y’know, I really don’t think you should give one while you’re mad? I mean, Wade Jr. will grow back, but it’ll take like half an hour and also I thought you liked this couch too much get that much blood on it. Unless, hey, tonight you want to try some Hannibal Lecter slash Armin Miewes action, but I really think we should put down a tarp for that,” Wade said, grasping desperately for some way to turn this around—something to make Nate laugh, and then it would be good again. They wouldn’t have to continue with the talking bullshit.  
He was seriously afraid that if they went on for much longer, he realy WAS going to say some shit that would make Nate seriously pissed off.  
But Nate had this Look on his face.

Now, see, Wade had only seen THAT Look on Nate’s face a very few times—usually after someone important died, or he was particularly, uniqely disappointed in Wade.  
It was a look that always made Wade want to flay himself alive and then jump into a bathtub of lemon juice. 

“The fact that you think I would bite your dick off out of anger is...actually probably one of the more horrifying things I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard a LOT of shit, Wade.” The Look—the Plaintive Stare, Wade realized—was still there, worse now because those mismatched eyes were looking at him from crumpled-up brows with such aching, searching sincerity. 

At that moment, if he’d asked Wade to cut his own cock off and hand it to him on a silver platter, he would have. Anything to get that look off Nate’s face—that look that told Wade he was looking at him and seeing clean through his shit and down to his fucking bones.  
“Ha ha, funny joke, gallows humor? I was gonna say black comedy, but that’s really stupid, because how do you separate black comedy from Black comedy? I mean unless you can Scott Pilgrim it and say capital letters out loud. Rare skill these days, you know.”

No laugh. And then Nate continued, “I don’t want THIS, with YOU, to be—so violent, too. Can you just—can’t we--” Nate stopped, seemingly choked on words, and Wade thought a lot about stereotypes and toxic masculinity and stoic assholes eventually dying of stress heart attacks.  
“I just..i want you to...Stop...goading me, trying to push my buttons.”  
Nate was still talking, not in his lecturing Mutant jesus Future Know-It-All voice, but a quiet, low rumble, and that was worse because that meant it was Real.  
“Don’t you ever just want to be close? Without all the bullshit attached, all the fighting beforehand, just so we have a convenient excuse to have make-up sex, and then go back to not touching each other at all until the next time one or both of us is aroused? Or until you want me to treat you as a ragdoll when we spar, as some sort of fucked-up catharsis for you. You must know I can tell when you stop seriously putting up a fight.” Nate was saying, and now the Plaintive Look had become the Plaintive Voice, too, and Wade kind of wanted to die, the unexamined and unnamed feelings writhing in his guts and in his ribs like snakes busily trying to eat each other. 

And the thing is. The thing is, that before the whole Weapon X program, Wade had been a huge cuddle slut. The Biggest cuddle slut! he’d been the type of guy who, if you let him, would just fucking climb on top of his partners and kind of live there. The epitome of the couch cuddle octopus of boyfriends. 

And now he coudn’t stand to touch anyone unless there was at least one layer of cloth between himself and the other person. 

Becayse realistically, he knew he looked fucked up on a good day, and barely recognizeable as human on a bad day. Someone freezing up or flinching away--or doing WORSE--when he reached out to touch them hurt worse than the random tumors, the dry, peeling skin patches, than all the open sores put together.  
“So why, Wade? Why the song and dance? It can’t be because you’re afraid about your masculinity—you’ve shown plenty of times that you do as you please and dress how you like, so you’re secure in that regard. And I know it isn’t fear, because you--”  
Jesus wept, he was really going to go down the entire list, wasn’t he? 

Wade felt like he was being crushed, like someone had split his ribs and put a vise around his heart and was tightening it. Incdentally someone had actually tried that on him as a torture tactic once, which worked for exactly long enough for him to dislocate his wrist, free his hand, and gouge the guy’s eyes out.  
Nate probably wouldn’t like him bringing that up right now, though, and he wanted pretty desperately for Nate to a) not be upset and b) not be upset at HIM in particular.

“Because there’s no way you really want to be with this.” Wade mumbled at last. He had to look away when he said it; Nate’s glowy cyborg eye gleamed gold over blue, and his organic one saddened. “You think I don’t know that I look like the bastard lovechild of a crash test dummy and a plucked ostrich? You think *I* would fuck me, if I had a choice not to?”  
Nate’s only response to his confession was to dial the Look up to eleven, which made Wade’s breath catch in his chest in a really gross way, and then he said quietly, “Oh, Wade. Have I ever made you feel disgusting?”

Wade lifted one shoulder and dropped it, still not able to look back at Nate for more than a few seconds at a time.  
Nate seemed to be making up his mind about something, but whatever it was, he didn’t say. Instead, he nodded and made a thoughtful grunt.  
Wade felt equal parts pathetic and grateful and ashamed when the other man gently squeezed his thigh with his organic hand.  
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Let me show you how I really feel.”

But he didn’t explain. Instead he stood up—offered Wade a hand up like the sickeningly perfect gentleman he was—and then escorted Wade to the door to his room, his hand chaste and perfectly decorous on the small of Wade’s back.

Wade tried four different ways to get it up, and nothing worked. He ended up sitting on the couch, blasted out of his mind on kind of a lot of good kush, trying and failing to make himself pay attention to The French Chef. 

~  
TWO

“Well, hello, tall, chrome, and naked,” Wade said.  
His stomach was NOT fluttering. He was NOT anxious, and he sure as hell wasn’t afraid. Nate had already seen him naked, had seen him bleed and had, on more than on occasion, literally helped him scoop his guts back into his blown-open abdomen.  
Nate’s smirk was soft and fond, the usual edge of sharp, brittle meanness dropped.  
“Hello, Wade,” he said.  
It wasn’t fair, that some people could be so fucking naked and so fucking comfortable in their own body—even if roughly 45% of it WAS metal. Wade couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to be that relaxed without at least two layers covering the wreck that was his body.  
“Do you still want to try what we talked about?”  
“The thing, right, yeah,” Wade said, rolling one hand at the end of his wrist as if to imply he HADN’T been thinking about it nonstop since they’d talked the previous week.  
“Yes, Wade, that. Although I have to say, we won’t have to do much,” Nate amended quickly, with a gesture.  
Wade snickered and cocked his head. “Aww, and here I was kind of looking forward to you holding me down by the neck and telling me what a slut I was, while you spanked my ass red and raw.”  
Nate snorted, but it was gentle and amused. “I don’t want to hit you unless we’re sparring. We talked,” Nate said smoothly, “About a lot of things. But I think we should start simple.”  
‘Simple’ was how they ended up spooning in bed—naked except for Wade’s mask, with Wade feeling like he was going out of his mind with an anxiety, and so tense that he could barely think to make stupid jokes about it.  
“You know, this isn’t a blanket fic,” he tried, stupidly, but Nate just blinked down at him and shook his head.  
“Old story trope, early 00s internet, don’t worry.”  
“I’m...actually familiar with the term,” Nate chuckled. He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Wade’s head, his thumb stroking a particularly grody, ropy patch of scar tissue on Wade’s belly.  
wade’s stomach did something unpleasant.  
“HOW? You weren’t a pre-teen girl in the late 90s, why would you even—unless, you dog, you secretly like slashfic! Come on, tell me your OTP! Maybe we’ve run into each other in forums before!”  
“I only understand about fifty percent of what you just said, and even that is onle because I have a tab on the InfoNet open to Urban Dictionary at all times. And I keep telling you, when I’m from we honestly don’t have time to waste discriminating against people for who they love.” Said with a gentle little one-two-three-four drumming of the fingertips on Wade’s belly. Then, “Are you all right? I’ve seen you less tense before dangerous missions.”

“Yeah, there’s...” not really a way Wade could tell the stone-cold silver fox currently playing an invisble piano on his abs that Wade was, like, a 3 on a really dim night, and if he could convince his partner that he really WAS wearing a zombie mask. None of the usual bullshit stuck with Nate, though, which was fucking terrifying; he felt like he was standing on a glass shelf over a very, very deep canyon.  
And yet. And yet. Damn him, this felt good. Nate, big and solid behind him, and smelling a little like the back of an overheated speaker, along with the heavier natural scent of him, the fainter smell of soap. One of his arms—his flesh one, because he really WAS a romantic sap, holy shit—curled so that Wade could rest his head on the man’s bicep. If he stared hard enough, Wade could see his brachial artery jump under his skin with his heartbeat.  
“Wade?” Nate murmured. They were close enough that he felt the rumble in his back and all thorugh his ribs, warm and dense and spreading.

He had a sudden mental image of them together—Nate, looking like a cyborg underwear model, and himself, looking like a rejected zombie concept design or someone’s shitty first attempt to sculpt a zombie.  
His skin crawled at the thought, his eyes crumpling shut. One of his hands clenched hard into a fist, the thin, chapped skin along the back splitting in half a dozen tiny cuts, little spots of blood springing out over the skin and healing before it had time to run. He felt two of his fingernails loosen with the force, and knew they’d fall out when he straightened his hand again.  
Before he could twist the thougth into a more sarcastic quip, he grunted, “Why are you making me do this?”

Nate was the one who went all still and tense, at that, and Wade instantly knew that had been the wrong thing to say.  
It wasn’t Nate’s fault, after all, that Wade was plug-ugly and killed people to earn spending money. It hadn’t come out right.  
“Fuck, you know what, can we just backspace that entire remark out of existence?” Wade asked.  
“’The writing hand, having writ,’” Nathan quoted.  
Wade felt a sudden wrench of happiness that Nate had picked up on his joke and tossed it back at him, but the spark of happiness flared and died against the overall squirming, bleak discomfort of his mood.  
Nate took that pleasantly heavy, warmed-metal hand off Wade’s stomach.  
For some reason that made it WORSE, guilt and shame and anxiety fighting each other like a hydra biting its own heads off inside Wade’ s gut. He wanted so much.  
“Do you really feel that way? Like I’m forcing you to do this?”  
Wade wiggled one shoulder in lieu of shrugging. “Can’t see why else you would. there’s some kind of lesson here that I’m too dumb to pick up on, I guess.”  
Nate was silent for another beat too long, and Wade firmly expected an exasperated sigh, some cursing, and for the other man to get up and throw him out.  
Instead, very quietly, Nate asked, “Can I put my arm aorund you again?”  
“Why?” Wade said.  
“Why what? Why would I want to put my arm around my _partner_ and _lover_?” Now Nate was the one who sounded disbelieving.  
“No, I mean...” this came out as an incredulous little snicker. “it’s not like I can run away.”  
Nate DID sigh, then, and Wade wanted to flinch—but his voice was gentle, and so patient.  
It made warmth bloom blood-hot all through Wade’s gut, and his heart did some kind of twistng backfip thing in his ribs that he was glad was only metaphorical, because if it were literal it would have been incredibly gory.  
“I guess...” Wade said, at last.  
“’I guess, it’s nice,’ or ‘I guess, but only because I think you’ll get mad if I say no’?” Nate asked.  
“it’s really not fair that you know me well enough to predict my answers, even without being able to read my mind,” Wade grumbled. And then, “I know you can feel with your Terminator arm, and I know my skin feels like if someone tried to make leather bubble wrap, so you don’t gotta be nice and make yourself act touchy-feely.”  
The following silence somehow FELT sad, a wave of melancholy washing over Wade so powerful it made his breath shudder.  
“You’re the only one I ever want to touch, Wade.” Nate said quietly. “It’s always you. Sometimes...in broken, fragmented timelines where we never meet, I wake up and think about you. In a life so long ago and so far ahead of me or behind me that I shouldn’t even remember it, we never meet. All I have is this hazy memory of you. You are always like a mirage, there on the horizon, sometimes coming closer in an explosion and then vanishing again before I can catch you.”  
Wade wanted to ask him why. Why someone like Nathan—erstwhile savior of mutant-kind and the whole fucking world along with them—would devote so much energy to a guy who was nice only as far as his employers’ dollar stretched, who lived in his own private trash heap when not staying in his boyfriend-slash-former enemy’s super swanky island penthouse.  
“So I’m your mystey man? That’s...kinda cool, in a Sora-chasing-Riku kinda way. I really don’t plan on trading my katanas for a giant key, though, but it would be hilarious to see the looks on people’s faces before I brained ‘em with one...”  
Nate chucled, a low staccato sound, and Wade reached back one-handed and found the man’s big metal hand. Squeezed twice and got a gentle pressure back in return, and he took the hand and took adeep breath and then set it back at the base of his ribcage.  
Where the man imediatey began rubbing his thumb, right over Wade’s left kidney.  
“You’re like a shadow, my constant. I don’t know how else to explain. Being able to be this near you, to...be in the same space as you, I feel like...something is complete. One or more of the many time loops I’ve trapped myself in, and broken out of, jumping its track onto the right course.” Nate sighed a ltttle, the breath huffng out and fanning warm against the bck of Wade’s neck. His breath smells minty-warm, spearmint and whatever he’d been smoking earlier. 

“Aww,” Wade managed, “Are you saying that ‘You complete me’ line, but in a roundabout way? Because holy cheesy lines, Batman!”  
Nate’s tired smile came through in his voice when he sighed, “I still don’t know who that is. Don’t tell me! And no, I wasn’t saying that you complete me; I’m saying that you make me feel secure.”  
Before Wade even had time to even BEGIN to parse that, Nate continued, “And don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m surprised it never occurred to you that I like touching you because you’re YOU, and your skin texture is often more interesting than off-putting.”  
“Bullshit,” Wade said flatly.  
“It’s true,” Nate said softly. “I didn’t want to...say anything, at first. I know you’re self-conscious about it, and besides, I wasn’t sure how painful some of the lesions are.”  
~  
“I don’t think you’re a freak. I don’t think you look as ugly as you think you do. Appearance can’t always be changed, but it doesn’t dictate what kind of person you are.”  
“Don’t try to silver-lining this, Nate, we both know I’m an unhinged killer. For funsies, even,” Wade said. He felt too tired to try. “So you can’t even say that deep down I’m really secretly prince charming. Even if I did used to look the part.”  
“I mean it, Wade. You make me feel good. Let me make YOU feel good, too...” Nate said.  
He slid hs metal hand down over the curve and jut of Wade’s hip, fingertips pausing to idly toy wih a cluster of pea-sized tumors on his thigh that had sprouted that morning.  
And Nate was rubbing the big pad of his thumb over them almost absently, a gentle, unthinking touch. As if they were natural. As if they weren’t repulsive.  
“Is this okay? Am I hurting you?”  
“Once, you were all Fullmetal Tentacle, and you disemboweled me.” Wade blurted, and Nate’s hand stilled abruptly.  
He clapped his hand down on top of the bigger metal one before the other mn could pull away, and he hastily added, “I mean, I was totally down for the idea of Happy Tentacle Funtimes, but I don’t think that you had much ‘you’ left, because you didn’t even respond, not really. Anyway if you had chrome tentacles now, I’d totally love it if you wanted to, like, boa-contrict me with them. Gently, I mean. Be real nice.”  
Nathan turned this over in his mind a moment, before his fingers started moving again in the same ticklish little touch. “You like it, then.”  
“I like when you touch me the way a shark likes breathing sea-water,” Wade said.  
And then, realizing how heavy his words technically were, Wade went dead-still, half-wanting to weep and half-wanting to laugh, and scared too shitless to do either. 

What it Nate kept touching him like this?  
What if he STOPPED?

There was also the fact that his dick had completely wilted but the rest of his body felt alive in a kind of alarming way, his skin all lighting up where they were touching, so that when Nate finally pulled Wade back against his chest, it was like lying down on a dryer-warm blanket after coming in out of the snow. He could feel the way Nate’s chest changed to TO mesh halfway across, his other pec striated metal cables rather than flat muscle; could feel the man’s mismatched abdomen, the living metal slightly warmer than his skin, and his cock, soft and squished against the upper curve of Wade’s ass.  
The thought made a weird thrill of tenderness run through Wade.  
Aloud, he blurted, “And for a minute I thought you were going to surprise me with a nice fat salami for my buns.”  
Nate laughed a little, and kissed his ear. The warmth spread down through his face, leaving little tingles in its wake, like some horrible romcom cliché brought to life; but he guessed that there was a reason they were cliches, because they must have been true once.  
Once on a job, someone had shot him directly in the chest with a dart of some drug that had made him feel like this. All warm and fuzzy inside, his limbs loose and hot. It was probably some kind of muscle relaxant or paralytic nerve agent, but all it had done was make him feel like he’d just crawled out of a warm bath.  
In his truck on the way back from that job, he’d pulled over in the woods and jerked himself off with the drug still singing in his system, feeling like his entire body was being gently caressed and squeezed in the gentle grip of some enormous hand.  
This was better than that, and he wasn’t even sure how. There were lots of fun hormones the brain oozed when it was extra-happy, though, and he suspected this was one of those.  
“That’s not even fucking fair,” Wade muttered. “How the fuck can something that’s not even sex feel so nice?”  
As if on cue, Nate chuckled a breathless little laugh. “You’re not a machine, Wade. There’s not a ‘physical contact’ box you can just check off for the month once you’ve had sex a sufficient number of times.”  
“Well, shit! I guess I better take that calendar back to Spencer’s, then,” Wade said.  
His voice was faltering because Nate was moving his hand again, this time gently investigating a tender patch of reddish, flaky skin on the inside of his thigh that was the precise texture of old beef jerky.  
“Tell me if anything hurts,” Nate said.  
But he was so gentle that Wade just laid there with the other man touching his lesions and scars, barely daring to breathe, and the fear hurt worse than being stabbed, but the reality felt better than getting his cock sucked and sitting on another fat cock at the same time.  
Wade thought of a lot of things to say, but all of them died in his throat and somewhere in the monkey part of his brain when Nate finally, finally curled his big, warm metal hand around his privates—big enough that his palm could easily cradle both his cock and his balls. The other man sighed in evident contentment and kissed the back of Wade’s head, his shoulder, the back of his neck. 

Wade’s brain caught up enough for him to croak, “Is this some new future thing? Handjobs while completely flaccid? Are you gonna mind-mojo me in the butt or give me a magic telekinesis-boner?”  
He did an experimental backwards wiggle, and—nope, Nate was still totally soft too, but when Wade wriggled backwards Nate lifted his leg and slipped it over Wade’s, effectively wrapping himself around Wade like a very snuggly part-metal octopus.  
Nate sighed, but it was amused and affectionate. “No. I’m just going to hold you, and we’re going to sleep.”  
“You, uh. You’re kinda holding my family jewels and scepter, you know, not just...spooning. This is like an advanced technique...”  
“I can stop, if you’d like.”  
“N-no, I just,” Wade said, and then when Nathan applied the slightest pressure, the blunt metal of his fingertips just pushing againt his taint, Wade MEWLED and shivered all over. “i was just...curious...”  
“I think I like holding you like this,” Nate siad, as if considering something simple, like tomorrow’s weather. “It feels very intimate.”  
“Yeah, oh, it very fucking does,” Wade agreed. “Are you...couldn’t you maybe...i mean I’m not complaining, but a dick in the ass would be, as they say, very cash money.”  
Nate chuckled gently against the back of his neck, pressing another kiss there. From the way the skin pulled when he shifted, Wade knew he probably had some kind of weird skin patch back there that Nate somehow didn’t feel too squicked by to put his lips on.  
“No...i think not tonight. I’m tired. Aren’t you?”  
“I mean YEAH, but everyone knows that pre-sleep sex is the best sleep aid! I mean that and Ambien, but if you chug chamomile tea and eat an edible it’s just as good, except you feel like a smear of paint in one of those stupid stim videos. One of the really slow ones.”  
Nathan chuckled again. “One day, we’re going to sit down and diagram one of the things you say, and I’m going to ask you to show your sources for all your references.”  
That was an easy one. “Aww, Nate, I couldn’t! You know magicians never reveal their secrets!”  
“...I would hold your secrets,” Nate murmured, in a sleepy far-off tone.  
Nathan hummed low in his throat, the vibratons thrumming in Wade’s bs, and his breathing levelef off a long time before Wade’s. 

Wade lay awake only a little longer, rnning his fingers over Nate’s TO arm, feeling the way the bunches of metal muscle cables were oriented and held in place.  
When he slid his hand down Nate’s wrist to cover the hand that was holding his junk, he had to bite down another little noise of surprised pleasure. He curled one hand around Nate’s wrist, just above the joint, where on an organic arm he’d have been able to feel his pulse.  
Almost without meaning to, Wade sank down into a warm, squirmingly pleasant sleep.

~

**Author's Note:**

> This is so raw and unpolished...i hope you enjoyed my random notes and lightly peppered in swearing...oowoo...i feel like all the drawing artists always get to have fun notes in the margins of their drawings, and i always used to want to get in on the fun, so have the writer-ly equivalent, which i guess is me giving free rein to all my scatterbrained tendencies. also venting! 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Please comment if you like it!


End file.
